A working woman

I looked for a job for nine months. I finally have two roles, but the process of getting here has been rubbish and revealing.

Today is an angry day.

I asked the man at the coffee shop for one large skim flat white and one small. I handed over two keep cups, both the same size. The small coffee came back with more milk. I only notice the milk, lapping the lid and paler than in the other cup, as I walk to the car. I swore loudly.

I don’t know why I am angry but I know it’s not about the coffee.

It could have been the three tall people talking about their interaction with an app – I don’t know which one – and complaining that it had changed its behaviour, flicking them to a website when what they wanted to do was move to the next segment with their swipe.

My ears sharpened when I heard them talking, wondering which app they were talking about. The behaviour of websites, of digital things, used to be my obsession. That started over 25 years ago and it’s been a long time since I did any user experience design. I’ll never work in that field again, I thought. It’s not genius level stuff, thinking about how we interact with digital systems and how to make them work (or work us) but not even a PhD will get me close.

It’s been months and months of this anger.

There has also been sadness and grief.

In October last year I resigned from my position, thinking that a new one was around the corner.

It has taken almost nine months to find another role, two of them in fact, both casual.

I don’t mind the casual nature of the work, it suits me, if I am honest. The process of getting to this point has been one of the worst times of my life.

I have a folder on my computer labelled ‘CV’. Inside that folder I create other folders for each company or organisation to whom I apply for roles. I put all the required documentation in it and wait. Once I receive an answer, I move the organisation folder to another one called ‘Unsuccessful’.

Lecturer. Service Design and Innovation Partner. Innovation Coach. Social Impact Communications Specialist. Digital Humanities Specialist. Senior Communications and Research Translation Officer. Digital journalist. Copywriter. Content navigator. Communications Officer. Student Athlete Success Coach. Library Assistant. Studio Coordinator. Project Officer. Graduate Personal Trainer. Aged Care Volunteer.

There are more. I can’t remember them all because sometimes I delete the rejection emails immediately. Sometimes there is only silence.

This eats away at you, without you even realising.

Days are spent browsing job websites. Weeks. Over months your idea of your capabilities reduces. The picture you have of yourself is torn apart. You walk into grocery stores and wonder how to get a job there. Then you realise all the people you see have been there for years and the chances of an opening are probably slim. And anyway, you have no experience in retail, except that time you worked for several years at a chaotic book store and left when you were held up and couldn’t face being there alone again, standing behind a counter until midnight, waiting for another robbery.

I’ve read – well I saw on Instagram because my concentration has been shot by all the scrolling – that women my age are having problems getting work. Some point to HR departments and companies using AI to scan applications. Anything that reveals your age, deep experience for example, is marked suspect. I considered removing my PhD from my resume because no doubt it triggered alarms as to why I was applying for some of the roles I did. (They were right to be alarmed: my self-belief was in the toilet).

The past is present more than it should be. Remember that time? Why did you do that? Why didn’t you make that decision instead? Why didn’t you take that chance? You were scared and look at you now. Visiting New York when all this started did not help. It surfaced all the opportunities I didn’t take, because I was scared. Because I took the easy way out. If I had WANTED it more, or believed in myself more, or didn’t care what others thought, maybe I would have come somewhere like New York earlier in my life, to live.

At the end of her song La Yugular, Rosalía samples Patti Smith:

“Seven heavens? Big deal. I want to see the eighth heaven. Tenth heaven. Thousandth heaven. You know it’s like, break on through to the other side. It’s just like going through one door. One door isn’t enough. A million doors isn’t enough”.

Here I am, automatically ruling myself out of checkout chick jobs, when what I know is that a million doors isn’t enough.

This is the grief bit I guess. What if? Why? Why not? When you knew all along?

The sense of self erodes as it circles another impediment, another blockage, another failure.

There has been good stuff.

I met some wonderful people and was able to write about them. The ABC published the stories. I finished a book manuscript that I have been working on for a couple of years. Sent it to some places. Was rejected but given promising feedback. Silence from other places. It needs more work, I know that, but I have put it aside for a bit, hoping that my subconscious mind can mould the solution without me realising it and when I sit down again it will become clear.

I finished the personal trainer course but immediately ruled myself out of getting work in that area when I looked in the mirror and compared myself to everyone I saw on Instagram. (Don’t even try to berate me about this, I know).

I finally got some answers to some of the pain I was having. Adenomyosis, possible endometriosis and fibroid the size of a fist. (The latter, I was told, could not possibly cause pain). I was put into a chemical menopause to get some relief. “You’ll be feeling great in no time” the specialist said.

The sharp dive of hormones triggered a frightening depression. When I complained to the specialist he treated the side effects of the cure with more hormones. He was putting patches on the patches.

I think I’ll just ride this out, I told him the last time I had an appointment. If all you’ve got is patches, I’ll take my chances. But the cancer! He said. If we don’t do a hysterectomy you have a greater chance of cancer! When can you do that? I asked. Not for a year at least, he said.

As I said, I’ll take my chances for the time being.

In February, a little crack of light.

I was offered a volunteer coaching gig. I doubted my ability to perform. I couldn’t get a job, how was I going to convince 25 odd women that I knew what I was doing? A local library wasn’t convinced I could put books back on the shelves in the right order when I applied for that assistant role.

But it has been ok. I have been doing it.

A friend sent me a flyer from a local Catholic school, seeking “AFL coaches” for their school teams.

I don’t think I can do that, I said to myself, when it arrived. I have only 6 or so years experience, a silver coaching certification from the AFL, a book written after observing an elite team for a season and a spot in the new AFLNSW Women’s Coaching Academy. None of this is a job.

I didn’t apply, until my anger or my sadness or my grief got the better of me. Just ask if they still need someone and go from there, I told myself.

They did, but still I hesitated. I left their email unanswered for days. They got back to me, on the Sunday before term started. Are you still interested?

I don’t know.

I told Liz.

“I don’t know whether to apply for this job”, I said.

“Well, do you want to do it?”

“It’s not about that!” I shouted, suprised by the fear coming out in my voice, “I’m SCARED”.

“Do you like coaching?” she said, evenly and calmly.

I stood up from where I was, bent over pulling the Sydney Uni women’s Div 1 jerseys out of our front-loading washing machine and picked up the basket.

“WELL OBVIOUSLY!” I said and marched out to the line to hang the shirts out.

I silently recited as I held each shirt to the line and attached it: “Number 1, Muz. Number 19, Emma. Number 20, Lorna. 5 Nikki. 12 Lucy” And so on.

I went inside and applied.

The next day my PhD supervisor Kate texted me.

“Do you want to teach with me this semester?”

Yes, I do Kate. Yes I do.

I started both roles last week.

Sometimes things happen quickly, at the right time. I should have known that months of mindless scrolling on job websites, of tarting myself up for LinkedIn, of getting professional help with my CV (which I am sure was just someone using AI to rewrite it for me), of poor attempts at networking would not render the solution. The solution came through relationships and some kind of honesty on my part. I couldn’t admit that I could coach until I hung that load of blue and gold striped shirts on the line. More importantly, it’s ok to admit that you don’t actually want to do those other jobs. It’s ok to claim what you do want, to go through that door.

I want to continue writing. I NEED to continue writing. But I also need some other outlets that pay me a modest wage, even for short periods of time. These things save me from hollowing out entirely, believing that no employer in the world could be convinced that I could competently make tea for a meeting of superiors.

I started this by declaring it was an angry day. Now I’ve said all this I am not angry anymore.

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Thank you, as always, for reading.

Georg x

I write this stuff because I have to, it’s a compulsion. However, if you like it and you want to show your appreciation, I admit that I get pretty chuffed when someone ‘buys me a coffee’ (pays me a little bit).